For nearly a month, Cesasar remained inside the infant cultivation pod, quietly growing stronger under its constant supervision.
Saiyans were often described as cold and ruthless, but when it came to raising newborns, they were remarkably efficient. Affection was irrelevant. Results were what mattered.
Every cultivation pod within the chamber represented the pinnacle of Planet Vegeta's biotechnology. Gravity, temperature, and atmosphere were precisely calibrated to stimulate development. The nutrient fluid surrounding the infant was enriched with specially refined compounds, designed to accelerate growth and strengthen the body from the inside out.
Comfort was incidental.
Optimization was the goal.
After one month, Cesasar focused his gaze on the transparent interface hovering within the pod.
**Battle Power: 96**
An increase of six points.
For a grown warrior, the change would have been negligible. For a Saiyan infant, it was a solid result.
Cesasar understood his position clearly.
Among newborns, he belonged to the **intermediate class**—superior to the countless low-level warriors, though still beneath the rare elites born with battle powers exceeding one hundred.
Each year, roughly ten thousand Saiyan children were born on Planet Vegeta. Of those, fewer than a hundred were classified as high-level warriors. The vast majority were low-level, with only a small fraction reaching intermediate status.
Low-level warriors would eventually be sent to weak planets, expected to conquer them or perish. Intermediate warriors were granted three years of structured training on Planet Vegeta before being deployed. As for high-level warriors, they were born into powerful families and raised with the utmost care, groomed to become the core strength of the Saiyan race.
It was a brutal system.
After the cultivation phase ended, class divisions became absolute. The strong were refined further. The weak were cast into battlefields where survival itself was the test.
Natural selection—unfiltered and merciless.
During this month, Cesasar also met his parents.
They were exactly as expected: typical Saiyans. Efficient, detached, and pragmatic. They examined his data, confirmed his classification, and departed shortly afterward to resume their missions.
Cesasar watched them leave in silence.
No disappointment.
No attachment.
This was simply reality.
What caught his attention, however, was an unexpected encounter.
One day, a group of adult Saiyans entered the chamber. Among them was **Bardock**.
He was still young—far from the hardened warrior he would one day become. His presence here was not official. He had come to see his newborn daughter, recently placed in one of the cultivation pods nearby.
Cesasar observed quietly.
*A daughter?* he thought, surprised.
From what he remembered, Bardock's family history dint have daughter. The timeline didn't quite align with his expectations.
For a moment, Cesasar considered the implications.
Then he dismissed them.
The universe was vast, and memory was imperfect. Minor discrepancies meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. What mattered was the larger picture.
Still—
Seeing Bardock here confirmed something crucial.
Planet Vegeta was still intact.
At least ten years remained before its destruction.
That was more than enough time.
Cesasar felt a calm confidence settle within him.
First: three years of formal training on Planet Vegeta.
Then: assignment to a low-level planet.
Dangerous, yes—but also ideal.
Remote missions meant fewer observers. Fewer restrictions. Opportunities to grow through real combat.
Earth, however, was not an immediate option.
Every Saiyan pod was equipped with a tracking system. Leaving too early, or acting carelessly, risked drawing Frieza's attention. That was unacceptable. Earth must remain hidden until the right moment.
Cesasar had no intention of living quietly, accepting a predetermined fate, and dying alongside Planet Vegeta as history dictated.
He wanted control.
Frieza.
The Androids.
Majin Buu.
They were not inevitable disasters.
They were future challenges.
Stepping stones.
He would surpass the original course of history.
He would surpass Goku.
He would surpass Vegeta.
But power without planning was meaningless.
Among Saiyans, birth power shaped expectations. Those below thirty were labeled low-level. Between thirty and one hundred were intermediates. Above one hundred—elites.
These labels defined projected potential. Low-level warriors rarely exceeded two thousand in battle power. Intermediates ranged from two to five thousand. Only elites were expected to surpass that threshold.
Yet Cesasar knew better.
Aptitude mattered—but it was not absolute.
Bardock himself was proof. Classified as low-level, yet through relentless combat and repeated near-death experiences, he had pushed far beyond his limits. And Goku—discarded as weak—had shattered every boundary placed before him.
Blood alone did not determine greatness.
Environment did.
Methods did.
Earth's martial arts emphasized internal refinement—control of ki, balance between body and mind, efficiency rather than brute force. Compared to the crude energy techniques favored throughout the universe, Earth's methods were subtle, disciplined, and devastating when mastered.
Saiyan physiology combined with Earth's training…
That was the path.
"When my body is ready," Cesasar decided calmly, "I'll go to Earth."
With that thought settled, his breathing slowed.
The cultivation pod continued its steady hum.
Cesasar drifted into sleep—not as a helpless infant, but as a strategist laying the foundation for a future that would no longer follow fate's